Laeta Lives
by LadyOfGlencairn
Summary: Set at the beginning of Mors Indecepta (3.07), this one-shot is inspired by the conversation between Spartacus and Laeta when he visits her after her return to the rebel camp.


**A/N: I've always been a HUGE Sparlaeta shipper and was seriously disappointed when they turned out to be mere comfort buddies. I'd always hoped for more and loved this scene in 3.07 (Mors Indecepta) when Spartacus comes to see her in the medical tent and decided to do a one-shot.**

**Hope you enjoy it. :)**

**LadyG**

* * *

Laeta lay cold and injured, body resting atop filthy wooden bunk, stench of blood and death everywhere. She remained still, absent will to protest as wounds in plain sight and those beneath surface festered. She was but a shell, empty and lifeless, cast cruelly from comfort of ocean floor. Husband dead, swiftly dispatched to the afterlife and home no longer standing as place of refuge, she knew the wrath of the Gods rained down upon her. Though what sins she had committed to deserve such fate, she knew not.

Shivering as tent flap fluttered and winter's sting unleashed its fury beyond, body protested against chill yet mind remained unaffected. Deserted by Rome, nay, cast aside by Marcus Crassus without thought to comfort or safety had inflicted grievous wound. Then gifted to filthy pirate Heracleo and branded his slave stood final insult.

Her life had been a privileged one, raised in splendour and pampering, never lacking warmth and comfort. Wedded to Aedile on the cusp of womanhood, she had been young and naïve. He had been her entire life and as such, she had known little of the cruelty and hatred of man. Sinuesa en Valle had been beloved home, a place of sanctum and protection. It now stood in ruin, first captured by rebels looking to gain advantage in coming war and later by those who had thought to place her beneath heel, to erode remaining dignity and lower her standing in life to that which rivalled the inferiority of a dog.

Cradling arm she felt pain of wound that marked her equal to those she had once commanded. She cried in despair knowing that the one man she had once thought saviour was now mortal enemy. Laeta called to death, welcoming its warm embrace as delivery from endless suffering.

Around her she heard cries of agony, the medicus trying his best to save butchered limbs of battle weary rebels. Many gave up the fight while some clung bravely to vestiges of fading life.

Hearing footsteps, she opened eyes to see none other than the rebel leader himself, Spartacus, before her. Sight of him brought feelings of fury and resentment bubbling to surface. It was he who had stolen her city, he who had killed beloved husband, he who had known she would betray confidences, carrying false plans to Crassus in hopes of deceiving the mighty Roman and his legions. She stood certain that not even Spartacus, brilliant military tactician, had predicted that once she had outlived her usefulness to the Republic, its leader would sell her to a brute without second thought.

Shivering from cold, she whispered, "I did not think to lay eyes upon you again."

"Nor I you." His eyes were surprisingly gentle. She rejected sympathy in them.

"The Gods mock us both."

"You are still of this world, yet you shall slip from it if you do not eat." With a low voice, firm yet kind, he pushed a bowl of broth toward her.

Dismissively, she replied, "See it to one more deserving." She wanted nothing from him save the peace to die without bother. There was no place for her in this world, no place she belonged. It was best to beg the Gods for deliverance.

His voice hardened as he moved closer. "Do you seek to be pitied?"

She reared up, gaze flashing. "I seek nothing!" Eyes filled with angry tears. "I am but ash, remains of hearts flame cooled by the Bringer of Rain." She saw a flash of guilt in depths of blue eyes, but it disappeared so swiftly she was certain it imagined. "You brought death of my city, tore me from the life I knew. Smothered by Crassus, who cast me off in chains," she lowered arm to reveal mark, "for the pleasure of a savage," she sobbed.

* * *

Spartacus stared at the Roman woman, brought low by consequences of war. He understood her pain, better than she thought. He too had once been a free man, his life his own to command before he had been captured and forced into life of celebrated gladiator. He had long since made peace with the battle fraught path he seemed destined to travel upon. The same would be true for her.

While he sympathised with her plight, he would not change all that had come before it. Their fates had been sealed when he had made decision to invade Sinuesa, a choice he had taken for the safety of those who followed him. A choice he would make again if so tested.

"You have known pain and loss, a misfortune shared by many among us." He lifted his arm and showed her the mark of his former Dominas.

She seemed taken aback by irrefutable proof of Roman enslavement. She stared, then shook her head. "How do you move past it?"

He looked away, thinking of all he had suffered and lost because of it. His home in Thracia, beloved wife killed as pawn in never-ending game, brothers and friends slayed in battle. He carried the weight of those who had fallen with him every day. The pain never ended but he had learnt to find new purpose.

So in truth, he still did not have reply.

"It is a question I have asked many times." He looked at her, gaze fixed upon her face. "_Live_ and help provide answer."

He pushed bowl towards her once more and walked away. He would have her make own choice in the matter. His words would either inspire desire to live or seal resolution to die.

For reasons he would not examine, he hoped she would rally.

* * *

She watched him go, pondering meaning of uttered words. She once thought him cold and heartless, a man bent on vengeance, his desire only for death and destruction. While in Sinuesa she had been surprised by glimpses revealing a man more complex than once assumed. Though that did not mean she stood in favour of the butchering and savagery he had rained down upon her people.

Seeing mark of slavery etched upon skin, she knew he had tried to show that they were not so different. Perhaps raised in different worlds, the result of their journeys now stood the same. Both branded as slaves.

He fought for freedom, not only for himself, but for all who had been subjected to the whims of their Roman masters. She was reminded of her own pain and grief, her anger at being cast off as slave and thought of them, the rebels, and their cause. He had decided his own fate. What would she choose hers to be?

Perhaps they had more in common than first believed.

Slowly, she picked up bowl and took a tentative sip.


End file.
